


The Strategist and the Redhead; Part 8

by ignis_scientia_estrogen_brigade



Series: The Strategist and the Redhead [8]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Death, F/M, Heavy Angst, Kingsglaive: Final Fantasy XV (2016)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-11-22 17:55:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11385360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignis_scientia_estrogen_brigade/pseuds/ignis_scientia_estrogen_brigade
Summary: This series of fics features an OC that originated from a brief headcanon I wrote in the early days of The Ignis Scientia Estrogen Brigade; they were written out of chronological order, so I apologize for any inconsistencies you might happen to come across. Part 8 is the conclusion to the redhead's story; while I'm not ruling out the idea of returning to this particular time frame at some point in the future, this is always how I envisioned her story ending, and I felt she deserved a fitting send-off.





	The Strategist and the Redhead; Part 8

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place before the start of in-game events (specifically during the events of Kingsglaive). And no, the redhead doesn't have a name. Sorry. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

_"Ready.”_   

She can feel the cold bite of wet concrete hard against her kneecaps even through the leather of her raiment trousers; as the muzzle of an Imperial-issued subautomatic rifle hovers near her left temple, the only coherent thought the redhead is able to formulate in that moment is how utterly ridiculous it was of the Citadel to invest in uniforms that weren’t even fully waterproof.

Which is a ludicrous notion to entertain in and of itself, considering the present circumstances; the Magitek army that had infiltrated the royal estate during the peace accord was rounding up every last person on the premise—alive or otherwise—and the redhead is but one of three dozen palace occupants who have been forced to their knees on the front steps of the capital building in the pouring rain in preparation of their imminent execution, Niflheim-style.

The man kneeling beside her and dressed in the robes of a high councilman is sobbing so loudly she can hear his pitiful moans over the sound of raindrops pummeling the pavement. He likely had a front-row seat to Iedolas Aldercapt's treachery, she surmises, although how he even made it out of the signing with his life intact was another mystery entirely, unless he somehow managed to crawl over the dead and dying bodies of his fellow legislators in a desperate attempt to save himself.

_Fool,_  she thinks. No one was ever going to make it out of that throne room alive.

She, on the other hand, might've escaped an untimely fate, had the Six shown more favor toward her; the redhead wasn’t even inside the building when the anarchy began, and was instead trolling the outside perimeter she and a fellow security guard had been assigned to when she first heard the sound of shots being fired. They were immediately caught up in a sea of pure pandemonium—confused staff and civilians alike had swarmed in a hundred different directions like a school of startled fish—and her colleague had twisted an ankle in a failed attempt at herding the human stampede. She was thus left with an impossible decision to make: leave him behind in the chaos, or stay by his side until help arrived.

Ignis would've never left one of his own behind, and neither did she.

Help never did arrive, however, so here she was, prone with her wrists bound and forced to listen to the sniveling of a politician who was likely as much at fault for the death of the king as the role Regis himself played in his own tragic downfall. Her thoughts turn toward the strategist, because what else was left for her to ponder besides the rifle aimed at her head and her own impending sense of doom; she thinks about the few brief moments of happiness she had with him, the passion and ecstasy and torment they shared that both delighted and haunted her each and every time she cried out his name, and of all the moments of happiness that had yet to come to pass. She never even got chance to tell him about her family—personal details were irrelevant within the confines of their agreement—from the parents she hoped were still alive and safe in the north, to the sister who had fallen in love with an Altissian merchant and had absconded with him to Lestallum years prior. No one would ever know what ultimately happened to her, she realizes, although if the whispers she had heard amongst her fellow prisoners on the march to meet the Draconian were true, and that Cor Leonis had indeed somehow made it out of the city alive, he might possibly be able to relay her destiny to bespectacled ears.

But the redhead never told her superior officer about her dalliance with Ignis Scientia, never broke her own promise of keeping their arrangement a secret, not even once; as the rain falls ever harder around her knees, and the cold soaks her nearly to the bone, she fears the strategist might not ever think to ask.

_“Aim.”_

The blood weeping out of the gash on her forehead she received when she was detained trickles down her cheek and mingles with the crimson locks of hair plastered to her face, but she doesn’t feel the pain; rather, an odd sense of calm envelopes her like a warm blanket as she remembers the last night she spent with him, when he spilled his seed inside of her mere moments after bringing her to her own climax, just as he had done a hundred times before. She wonders if perhaps Ignis had had a premonition, of sorts—it wouldn’t have surprised her in the least to discover the Scientia family line was graced with their own brand of Lucian magic—because it was the only time she could ever recall him being tender toward her in the aftermath of their relations, holding her tightly in his arms and running gentle fingers across her naked belly.

She couldn’t bring herself to tell him she loved him—even though she did, their arrangement be damned—because she thought there’d be time enough later to reconcile her true feelings for him, thought they could sit down objectively and redefine the boundaries of their accord upon his return, and she didn’t want to be a burden on his mind right before he set out on the road to Altissia with his three closest friends. But she’d gifted him a necklace with a pewter skull pendant as a lighthearted joke, teasingly saying it represented his desire for a swift death rather than to be caught wearing anything less that haute-couture fashion.

He’d given her little tangible to show for in return, other than a few pieces of designer lingerie and a plethora of love bites that turned into annoying bruises she’d nearly torn her hair out trying to conceal from more curious observers. But that was enough, she concedes, because the strategist had also given her a glimpse into the side of him few had ever witnessed, and the peace she feels knowing he was wasn’t in the crown city when the chaos ensued helps to stay the grief that threatens to suffocate her. Ignis might very well have gotten her with child, for all she knew—or perhaps the stress of the weeks leading up to the peace talks was simply to blame for the irregularity of her last menstrual cycle—but it doesn’t matter now, because the muzzle of the rifle is pressed hard up against her temple, and tears have begun to flow over the faint smile that touches her lips.  

_“Fire.”_

They say a person’s life flashes in front of their eyes the instant before death, but she doesn’t recall to mind the memories and milestones of her youth; instead, she sees the faces of the children they will never have together, a vision of a future that will never be.

Then the sharp crack of a bullet being fired pierces the air and enters her skull, and the redhead no longer sees anything at all.


End file.
